


and my love keeps writing

by elizajumel



Series: wedded bliss extension pack [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24325267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajumel/pseuds/elizajumel
Summary: “Ghosts are what’s left behind,” Aaron says, stirring the infuser in Alexander’s favorite Garfield mug. “They have unfinished business. So, you see, they’re usually more sad or bored than anything else.” [Aaron bonds with the Hamilton children.]
Relationships: Aaron Burr/Alexander Hamilton
Series: wedded bliss extension pack [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756147
Comments: 3
Kudos: 41





	and my love keeps writing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Religious Duty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6178921) by [ghostburr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostburr/pseuds/ghostburr). 



On some subconscious level, he’d always assumed Alexander would be a morning person.

His partner barely stirs when he settles back into bed with the paper. “Coffee?”

“No,” Aaron says, bending down to kiss his neck.

“I don’t see why you woke me up, then,” Alexander says, and rolls over.

Alexander’s genius reaches its frenzied peak around two in the morning, give or take an hour. A brisk shake on his shoulder. Wake up, Alexander says, I’ve an idea. For the case. A speech. A new investment. You know the person I was arguing with on the Internet? I want to do something with the garden.

Aaron wakes up with whole dissertations scrawled between his shoulder blades, written at an odd angle as though someone had pursed his lips over his back with a pen muttering, hold still, stop squirming. “I slept like an oyster,” he says. “Didn’t feel a thing.”

“Oyster,” Alexander says, the curl of his lips like he’s trying not to smile. “Let me copy this—”

And Aaron perches on the kitchen counter with mug in hand while Alexander jots down his late-night manifesto. Finally, he puts down the legal pad. “Don’t move.”

Alexander takes the café blanc from him with a look of distaste and kisses him, hard, a sharp bite of unflavored black. Aaron is flawlessly still under his ink-stained hands; his breath barely hitches when Alexander kneels and starts stroking him, a familiar stubborn set to his brow, like he’s determined to make the other man break, and Aaron smirks. “Oh, general,” he whispers, “ _take_ me. I am yours.”

“Don’t speak,” Alexander says, runs his tongue down the side of his cock and for a second he _can’t_ —knuckles clenched colorless around the counter’s edge. “And don’t even think about coming.”

Aaron bites his lip clean through. Alexander smiles. “Good soldier.” His grip tightens on Aaron’s waist and it’s that—the cruel sting of his nails, the cool, smooth roll of his wedding band in contrast to the heated press of palms—that does him in.

“Hmm,” Alexander says, sitting back on his heels. “You didn’t hold out long.”

Aaron tries to defend his honor; finds himself embarrassingly short of breath. “Take it as a compliment.”

“I don’t know, colonel. Some might see it as a sign of disrespect, disobeying orders like that. I still outrank you, you know.”

“How could I ever forget.”

Alexander stands and kisses him once, firmly, smugness emanating from his thin frame. “Put yourself back together, soldier. We have to pick up the children in an hour. Let’s stop by the grocery store on the way home.”

“Very funny,” Aaron says, rebuttoning his pants.

“I’m serious,” Alexander says, brow creasing. “Betsey sent me some recipes that I’ve been meaning to try for a while. I’m thinking—three courses. We’ll start off simple.”

“General,” Aaron says, pushing down his panic, “we can barely boil water.”

“But Betsey said these recipes are good for beginners.”

Aaron touches the petulant downward turn of his mouth, charmed. “I think you might be woefully underestimating what Betsey considers beginner-level.”

Alexander scoffs and pushes his hand away. “Is that a challenge—”

“ _No_ —”

“Well, consider it _accepted_.”

“You are truly hopeless,” Aaron says, and pins him against the island. “How long is the drive upstate again?” he murmurs, making quick work of the other man’s pajamas.

“Forty minutes at least on a good day— _Aaron_ —”

I love making you say my name, Aaron thinks but does not say, loves the sound of it in the other man’s mouth. In this particular respect, his partner was entirely predictable—unapologetically _vocal_ , and Aaron likes nothing better than the unbridled honesty of a loosed name from a proud tongue, no titles or trite terms of endearment. He kisses him deep for the taste of his coffee and morning cigarette, and it overwhelms him briefly, the purity of sensation, as though it belongs to a world in which they were only ever Aaron and Alexander.

“Colonel,” Alexander says, pulling away and holding Aaron’s face in his hands. “Are you alright?”

His breath catches at the intensity of Alexander’s gaze. The hold of those hands softens, becomes almost unbearably tender, and Aaron nods just to feel those callused fingertips move against his skin, the painless precision of the truth of their weight—thinks, perhaps tastelessly, this man would kill, die, for me. “Never better,” he says, and leans forward.

Betsey ushers them in with a hurried wave and a shrewd look. “Send me last year’s numbers so we can make a realistic estimate for the gala—oh, and a complete list of vendors,” she says into the phone, gesturing for them to take their shoes off. “No, not by _fax_. It’s the twenty-first century, for God’s sake. Slack me.” She rolls her eyes at Aaron, who offers a tentative smile. In spite of their history, he can’t help but admire her.

“As soon as possible, please. My ex-husband has the children today, so I’ll have some free time to look over the numbers. Perfect. Thank you,” she says, and hangs up. “You’re late.”

“My apologies,” Alexander says, kissing her on the cheek. “Traffic getting out of the city.”

“Of course,” says Betsey, gracious ambivalence only marred by the slight raise of an eyebrow. She starts for the kitchen with purpose, the two men trailing her. “Junior and James are spending the weekend with other friends—no doubt glued to a screen playing video games, but they both finished out the semester surprisingly strong, so I figured a little indulgence was in order. And little Phil is with his grandparents today, touring preschools. Would you like anything to drink?” she asks, and pours two glasses of water without waiting for a response. “The rest are all packed, except William, who couldn’t decide which of his rocks to bring. Why he needs any of them—well, I told him he could pick three. You might want to expedite that process if you want to get back while the sun is still out.”

“I’ll help him,” Aaron says, ready to retreat from the kitchen. While Betsey had accepted the news of their union with characteristic aplomb, he still feels wary with all three of them in such close quarters. He drains his glass quickly. “Thank you, Betsey. Which one is his room?”

“Second on the right upstairs,” she says, a barely contained smile on the edges of her mouth. Next to her, Alexander’s grin is shameless as he leans on the counter with the ease of someone who still lives there. Aaron backs out of the kitchen and leaves them to talk about whatever ex-spouses talk about, only breathing out when he reaches the top of the stairs.

He knocks on the second door, its construction-paper sign spelling out William and John in painted macaroni pieces. A few seconds of scuffling, and then a hesitant, “Mom? I’m still deciding.”

He smiles. “Hello, William. It’s Aaron.”

Muffled footsteps on carpet, and then William’s rumpled head peeks out at him. “Oh. It is you,” he says, and opens the door wider. “Mom says we have to practice stranger danger. Anyone could _say_ they’re you, you know.”

“Very wise,” Aaron says, following him inside. The floor is divided down the middle with masking tape, and scattered across what he assumes is William’s side are numerous piles of multicolored rocks, sorted into categories Aaron couldn’t even begin to guess at. “May I join you?”

William considers, then nods. Aaron picks his way through the piles and settles on a free patch of carpet. William follows suit across from him. “Your mother says you’re having some trouble deciding which of these to bring this weekend.”

“She said I can only choose three,” William says glumly, “but maybe if _you_ —”

“I think we should stick to what your mother said,” Aaron says, but softens the refusal by ruffling his hair. “Why don’t you tell me how you’ve sorted these?”

William rolls his eyes, looking briefly and alarmingly like Betsey. “By personality, of course.”

Aaron bites back his smile. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the personalities of these particular rocks. Will you enlighten me?”

“They’re _minerals_ ,” William says, in the long-suffering tone of someone who has had to explain the distinction one too many times. “These are my favorites.” He points to a stack of twenty or so, all different shapes and colors. “They’re the friendliest.”

“May I?” Aaron asks, and William pauses again before nodding. Aaron picks up one of the larger rocks— _minerals_ , he corrects in his mind—and holds it up to the light, turning it over for close inspection. Its pale pink facets gleam dully in the late morning sun slanting in through the window, and Aaron wonders idly if they need to get going soon. “Very friendly,” he affirms, setting it back down on the pile. “Do you give them names?”

William fixes him with the most incredulous look yet. “Why would I do _that_?”

Before Aaron can come up with an adequate response, Alexander appears in the doorway. “Are we ready to—ah. Not quite, I see.”

“It’s a tough call,” Aaron says. “They all have different personalities.”

“Daddy!” William opens his arms, and Alexander crosses the room to them, nearly tripping over a geode as his son flings himself at his legs.

“Hello, William,” Alexander says, kissing his shaggy head. “You need a haircut soon, dear boy.”

“Nuh- _uh_. Junior says haircuts are for squares. He’s trying to grow his hair out so he can wear it in a ponytail.”

“Over my dead body,” says Alexander. “We’ll talk to your mother about getting in a visit to the barbershop. You’ll want to look your best at summer camp next week, no?”

William beams up at his father, arms still locked around his legs. “Grandpa says they have a field trip to a _mine._ We each get to fill up a whole baggie and take it home.”

“How _exciting_ ,” Alexander says, and swings him up into his arms. “Where is your brother John?”

“Outside with Lizzie. She likes to scare him by making him look at the bugs on the tomato plant.” William squirms. “Can you put me down? I still haven’t picked and Mom says I need to practice being more decisive.”

Alexander obliges, and William goes to work immediately, picking up the same piece Aaron had considered and holding it up to the light with a pensive squint.

“You were getting along, I see,” Alexander murmurs, sitting down beside him, a smile in his voice.

“He’s lovely,” Aaron says.

Alexander’s gaze is warm as he brushes a hand over Aaron’s, weaving their fingers together. “It’s a good age. The last of them, really—a _ponytail_ , I ask you.”

“Now, general, I seem to remember you pulling one off back in the day.”

“Back when it was the _fashion_ , colonel. Only hippies wear them nowadays. No son of mine—”

“As if there’s any telling Junior what to do,” Aaron says dryly.

Alexander sighs. “True. But an attempt will still be made, and likely in vain.”

Aaron squeezes his hand. “Shall we get going soon?”

“We should, yes—if you want to finish up with William here, I’ll collect Lizzie and John from the backyard before she further traumatizes him.” Alexander presses a swift kiss to his cheek and salutes William before leaving the room.

The eight-year-old, who had hardly looked up throughout this exchange, regards Aaron with renewed interest. “When are you and Daddy getting married?”

Aaron smiles despite himself. “Your father and I _are_ married, William.”

“I thought getting married meant having a big party,” William says, thumbing through an assortment of minerals—final contenders culled from the larger piles, Aaron thinks. “Like at the end of _Bachelorette_ , when he sings to the lady he likes on the stage at the rest—the respect—”

“Reception?” Aaron supplies. William nods solemnly. “When did you see that movie, William?”

“James was watching it in the TV room yesterday,” the boy responds. “He cried at the end, and then made me leave because I saw him crying.”

Aaron resists the urge to laugh. “I’m not sure that’s an appropriate movie for someone your age.”

“I’m not the _baby_ anymore,” William says, indignant. “Phil isn’t even the baby anymore. Mom is going to have another baby and I’ll be the _fourth_ youngest then. Look, I picked out my minerals. Here.” He points to three identical clear pieces on the carpet.

“Well done,” Aaron says, reaching out to muss his hair again and rethinking it halfway. He lowers his hand and offers it for a shake. William takes it, seemingly mollified. “And to answer your question, William, your father and I got married without a big reception. It’s optional, you see, if a couple wants to spend the time and money planning one. But what’s more important is that you care for each other and share a commitment.”

William considers this. “But you didn’t have a _cake_ ,” he says finally.

Aaron does laugh then, as he pulls William up by the hand. “We can have cake tonight, perhaps, to celebrate the end of your school year. Would you like that?”

“Chocolate,” William says firmly. Aaron nods, and lets the boy lead him down the stairs.

Lizzie and John are already buckled up in the backseat of the minivan, backpacks on their laps. William lets go of his hand when they reach the car. “I want a window seat!”

“You got here _last_ ,” John says. “Loser gets the middle seat.”

“No fair! You know I get dizzy in the middle!”

“John, let your brother take the window seat,” Betsey calls. She and Alexander are leaning against the minivan, her planner in hand, his phone in his. Aaron wouldn’t be surprised if William’s haircut is already in the books. “Unless you want him getting sick on the drive into the city.”

“Ew!” John scoots over to the middle seat, allowing William to scramble into the car beside him. “You better not throw up all over me.”

“I _won’t,_ since I’m sitting by the _window_.”

Betsey smiles at Aaron, sliding her planner under her arm. “Thank you. The rock collection can be…challenging.”

“They’re minerals,” Aaron says reflexively. “It was my pleasure. I was telling Alexander, he’s a wonderful child. You’re doing well with them.”

Betsey’s smile deepens. “It’s not been easy lately, I will say. With Philip off at college and Angelica doing…whatever she’s doing in the city these days, I haven’t had those extra sets of hands around the house. But most of them are rather self-sufficient. And my sister comes by when she can.”

“We’d be happy to take them whenever you need a break,” Aaron offers, feeling Alexander’s eyes on him.

“That would be lovely,” Betsey says. “I need every spare second I can get, with the charity gala for the orphanage coming up. But I wouldn’t want to impose. I know you don’t have as much room in the city. And William is going to camp soon anyway.”

“There’s plenty of sleeping space, at least,” Aaron says. “We’d manage. Anytime you need.”

Betsey inclines her head, and a silence descends on the three of them. Alexander breaks it just before it lasts too long, clasping his hands together. “Well! Shall we?”

Aaron turns for the passenger side, grateful. With a chorus of goodbyes from the backseat, they pull out of the Schuyler estate driveway and peel off toward the highway, Alexander driving with a modicum more restraint than usual with three children in the car. Aaron reclines in his seat, exhaling.

Alexander gives him a sideways glance. “Are you alright?”

“Mm.”

His partner’s forehead furrows: the look that says, don’t get taciturn on me again. Aaron reaches across the seat and rubs his thumb across the other man’s wrist. In the rearview mirror, Alexander’s brow smooths out. “Shall we make a pit stop at Whole Foods?” he asks.

“I thought you were joking about that.”

“Betsey suggested we try the carbonara recipe. We have many of the ingredients at home already—we would just need to pick up the guanciale. I think we have enough flour to make the pasta by hand, even.”

“By _hand?”_ Aaron starts, at the same time that William interjects from the backseat, “I don’t want pasta. Can we get Domino’s?”

“Domino’s sucks,” John says. “Papa John’s is way better. Everyone knows that.”

“You just like it because it has your name in it.”

“Do not—”

“Can you guys keep it down?” Lizzie, heretofore silent, snaps. Her brothers instantly go silent. “I’m trying to read here.”

“What are you reading, Lizzie?” Aaron asks her.

A thin, braceleted arm thrusts a book the width of a brick toward his face. “ _Les Misérables_ ,” Lizzie informs him, her pronunciation flawless.

“How old are you again, Lizzie?”

“Seven.”

Aaron grins at her, unable to contain his excitement. “I have some of Theo’s old books in the apartment. Would you like to take some home with you?”

Lizzie tilts her head to one side and taps on her chin. “What kind of books? What languages are they in? How many can I take at a time?”

“Say thank you, Lizzie,” Alexander intones from the driver’s seat.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Burr,” Lizzie says formally, setting the tome on her lap and extending her hand for him to shake. “We can make a gentlewoman’s agreement on the number of books when you’ve decided.”

“You can call me Aaron, Lizzie,” Aaron says, shaking her hand with gravitas. “And you can take as many of the books as you want, for as long as you want. Theo isn’t reading them anymore.”

“We’ll still draw up an agreement,” Lizzie says. “And I would like to set a return date for each title. Having a deadline keeps me accountable.”

“If you insist.”

“Lizzie’s such a _nerd_ ,” John says. “Only nerds like long books about miserable people.”

“I’d rather be a nerd than scared of the roly-polys in the vegetable garden,” Lizzie retorts.

“I’m not _scared_ , you literally put it on a stick and shoved it in my face, I was _surprised_.”

“Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to,” Lizzie sing-songs.

“Can you put the address for Whole Foods into Google Maps?” Alexander says to Aaron, ignoring the squabbling in the backseat.

“General, really, the children want pizza.”

“The children are children. They always want pizza.”

“ _I_ want pizza,” Aaron says. “Or any alternative to you, six hours from now, swearing and covered in flour, with an apartment full of hungry Hamiltons and no semblance of dinner in sight.”

Alexander rolls his eyes. It really is a family trait, Aaron reflects. “Fine. But we’re ordering _nice_ pizza. The thin-crust kind that’s basically a flatbread. I won’t have it said that I drove my children all the way across the state to feed them garbage.”

“Pizza, pizza, pizza,” the boys chant, stamping their feet on the floor of the minivan.

Lizzie groans and whaps John on the head with her book. “Can we at least put on some music to drown out this childish racket?”

“Sure thing, Lizzie,” Alexander says, turning on the radio. Aaron rolls down the window and sings along, very badly, and Alexander glares at him but comes in on the chorus, taking the higher octave. William ignores their poorly matched rendition of “Livin’ on a Prayer” but joins them for “Kokomo”—“Daddy used to sing us to sleep with this song!”—and John for “We Will Rock You,” showing Aaron the stomp-stomp-clap pattern his classmates perform on the bus whenever it comes on, and even Lizzie sets her book down for “Bohemian Rhapsody,” trading off Galileos with her brothers.

“Mama, just killed a man,” Alexander croons, smiling sideways at him, and takes Aaron’s hand again at the next red light.

After two pizzas, the promised chocolate cake, and Aaron’s sound defeat in _Monopoly Empire_ , the younger Hamiltons are down for the count in the guest room, Lizzie in the bed—surrounded by several precarious book towers—and William and John on the air mattress, William’s chosen minerals ominously arranged at its base. “Time for work,” Alexander says, cracking his knuckles. “Put on some tea?”

“You get decaf.”

“You _know_ how I feel about—”

“It’s ten p.m., general.”

“Caffeine doesn’t even affect me that much,” Alexander says, typing in his laptop password with one hand and scratching out a line on his legal pad with the other.

“Probably because, like a drug addict, you keep increasing your tolerance level and requiring a stronger dose to achieve the same high.”

“Yes, that must be it,” Alexander says absently. “Come, take a look at this—is that—”

“Isn’t the point of copying down your notes from my back to render them legible?” Aaron says, but comes and takes a look. “Post…post-capitalist…basic income. And…the need to rethink our economic paradigm. This is what kept you up at two in the morning?”

“What else?” Alexander presses a kiss to his cheek, then pushes his face away, still tapping out full sentences one-handed. “Tea?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you type like you’re going into battle?”

“You know, they haven’t,” Alexander says, smiling at him. “I _like_ that. What a lovely thing to say. Just put the tea here when it’s done.”

Aaron gives up and goes into the kitchen. While the water boils, he eats a cold leftover slice and picks through Alexander’s meticulously sorted tea shelf. He can just barely hear the shuffling of small feet over the sound of the kettle. “Who’s there?” he calls without turning around.

“It’s me. William.”

Aaron selects the tin of lavender and closes the cupboard. “Hello, William. Is everything alright?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Is something the matter?”

“Lizzie snores.” William sighs. “I thought the minerals would help.”

Aaron smiles and pulls out a chair for him. The eight-year-old sits heavily, chin dropping to the table with a thunk. “The minerals were supposed to keep your sister from snoring?”

“They help with the air flow,” William says, as though this should be obvious.

“I see,” Aaron responds seriously. “What do you think the problem is, then?”

“I’m not sure.” William swings his feet from side to side. “Are there ghosts here?”

“You know, I’ve wondered that myself sometimes,” Aaron says. “What makes you say that?”

“I dunno.” William considers. “Maybe they’re hogging up the air.”

“That does seem possible.”

“Are ghosts more like a solid or a gas?”

“I don’t think I have the expertise to answer that. We might have to ask one.”

William looks alarmed but intrigued. _“You know how to talk to ghosts?”_

“Oh, I’ve talked to many a ghost in my day.”

“Do you use a Luigi board?”

“A what?”

“A Luigi board. With the letters.”

“Oh, a—no, you don’t need a Ouija board. I would steer you away from messing around with those, my dear boy. More trouble than they’re worth, if you believe the movies.”

“Movies aren’t real life,” William says decisively. “How do you do it, then?”

“Well, you wait for the right time of day,” Aaron says, taking the kettle off the stove and filling two mugs. “Ghosts like to talk when it’s quiet, maybe around midnight, or the blue hour.”

“When’s that?”

“Just before sunrise.”

William looks impressed. “That’s past my bedtime.”

“I should hope so.”

“How do you know if a ghost wants to talk to you?”

“You’ll feel them,” Aaron says, adding a little shiver for effect as he spoons tea leaves into a whale-shaped infuser. “The temperature might drop, or the air pressure might shift. Their presence might even induce extra snoring,” he can’t help but add, and William’s eyes widen.

“I don’t have any minerals to protect us against the ghosts!”

“You don’t need them,” Aaron reassures him. “The ghosts aren’t trying to get you, William.”

“They aren’t?”

“No, no. Most ghosts aren’t scary at all.”

William looks skeptical. “But they’re _ghosts_.”

“Precisely. And what is a ghost, William?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“No, sir.”

“A ghost…a ghost is what’s left of a dead person. They can’t eat solid food. Because they’re see-through and stuff.”

“That’s right. Ghosts are what’s left behind,” Aaron says, stirring the infuser in Alexander’s favorite Garfield mug. “They have unfinished business. So, you see, they’re usually more sad or bored than anything else.”

“Not scary?”

“Not scary,” Aaron confirms.

“Just sad and bored. And looking for someone to talk to.”

“That’s right.”

“To finish their business?”

“With any luck.”

“I don’t think I could have any business with a _ghost_ ,” William says dubiously. “My mom won’t even let me and John set up a lemonade stand. She says we need to get better at practicing stranger danger before we do business with anyone.”

Aaron smiles. “That seems wise.”

“Do you like lemonade?”

“I do, my dear boy.”

“Will you be our first customer?”

“It would be an honor.”

“Is that lemonade?”

“This is tea, my dear boy.”

“Can I try some?”

“You’re too young for tea.”

“Can I eat cold pizza too, then?”

“Not if you’ve brushed your teeth already.”

William’s lower lip juts out. “I thought you were the _cool_ dad.”

“I…” Aaron’s mind goes utterly blank. “I think Theo would disagree with you.”

William shrugs. “Theo only has one dad. So I guess to her you have to be the cool one _and_ all the bad stuff too. But I have two. And you’re way cooler than my dad. He wears those goofy shades that he thinks make him look like James Bond, but you _actually_ kind of look like James Bond when you wear them. And you can talk to ghosts.”

Overwhelmed, Aaron pats his head. “Thank you, William. That’s a very specific set of criteria.”

“What’s criteria?”

“A vocabulary lesson for tomorrow, I think,” Alexander says in the doorway. “Back to bed, William.”

“But Lizzie _snores_.”

“So I heard,” says Alexander. “Come on, I’ll show you how to make earplugs out of toilet paper.”

_“Cool!”_

“Stay put,” Alexander says as he passes Aaron. “I’ll know if it’s decaf.”

“I _said_ it would be.”

Alexander blows him a kiss over his shoulder as he leads William back to the guest room. Aaron takes a long sip of tea and considers a stray smear of pizza sauce on the countertop.

“Is that lavender?” Alexander slides into his usual seat across from Aaron and takes the Garfield mug from his hands. “Why do you bother making two if you’re just going to drink from mine?”

“How much did you hear?”

Alexander grins maniacally. “I was only on my computer for a minute. That fourteen-year-old Redditor won’t even know what hit them tomorrow morning.”

“Have you considered picking on someone your own size, general?”

“Oh, but I do,” Alexander says, nudging his foot under the table. “He puts up a good fight, but I still win most of the time. I say, colonel! This is not terrible.”

“Only the finest.”

“You’re good with William,” Alexander says. “With all of them, really, but especially with William. I don’t suppose it’s because you’re both Aquariuses?”

“He’s got a good mind,” Aaron replies. “Asks excellent questions.”

His husband’s smile fades. “Do you talk to ghosts often?”

“Not so much these days.” Aaron wraps his hands around the other mug, pressing his right thumb into a chip on the handle. “But I’ve had quite a bit of practice.”

Alexander regards him with what would amount to an earnest look if not cast over a mug with a protruding ceramic cat head. “Unfinished business?”

Fighting his worse instincts, Aaron sets down his mug and removes Garfield from Alexander’s hands, taking them in his own. “I’m sorry, but I can’t have a serious conversation with him staring at me like that.”

Alexander extricates his hands briefly and turns the mug around so the cat head faces the wall, then returns them to Aaron’s grasp. “Better?”

“Better.” Aaron brings their joined hands to his mouth and kisses the backs of Alexander’s, stalling. “I am _happy_ , general. Happier than I can ever remember being in two lifetimes.”

“That is what I want.” Alexander smiles at him, encouraging.

“And it is all I want for you.” Aaron considers their hands, the matching bands reflecting brushed gold in the warm kitchen light. “I just remember, still, what it was like when you were gone. Living almost as much of my life without you as I had with. You were impossible to forget, you see.”

Alexander leans across the table and kisses him then—like he can’t help but kiss him. Aaron closes his eyes and feels Alexander’s hands slide out from between his to cup his face, Alexander’s warm exhale of herbal tea and the gum he always chews when he’s writing.

Alexander sits back again. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you,” the other man repeats, louder this time.

“It’s not a competition, Alexander.”

“Isn’t it?” Alexander says, and suddenly they’re in bed again.

“It’s amazing how you actually _can_ keep quiet when you need to,” Aaron says.

“Truly, what can’t I do,” Alexander says smugly, pushing himself up on his elbows to kiss him again, then collapsing back onto the sheets. “Mm. No. Can’t move yet.”

It’s Aaron’s turn to be smug. “The great Alexander Hamilton, reduced to monosyllables? What can’t _I_ do?”

“Don’t be cocky,” says Alexander, patting the bed beside him. Aaron obliges, sliding an arm under the other man’s head and pulling him close. “We’re just getting old.”

“Old again,” Aaron muses.

“Again for you,” Alexander corrects. “This is all new to me. The fresh nightmare of aging. Will you still want me when I’ve lost my youthful good looks?”

Aaron snorts. “We were both already middle-aged when we met in _this_ lifetime. I think we left youthful behind in the 1780s.”

“Speak for yourself,” Alexander says, then sobers. “You know we may never be fully free of ghosts.”

“Of course. After all, we may live forever, and who knows how many we’ll accumulate then.”

He can hear his husband’s smile. “Maybe we’ll get to start younger next time. College, perhaps.”

“Heaven forbid. I’m glad we were never classmates. I bet you were a truly insufferable little shit in school.”

“Thank you, I was,” Alexander says, rolling over to kiss him again. “I love you. Can you get the lights?”

Aaron shoots him a look but gets up to flip the switch. He settles into bed again, back turned to the other man. “I love you. Can you let me get my precious few hours of sleep now before I’m woken up by you writing on me in the middle of the night?”

“I thought you slept through it,” Alexander says, suspicious. “Like an _oyster_ , you said.”

Aaron shuts his eyes and breathes deeply. He can hear the exact moment Alexander gives up, threading his arm under Aaron’s pillow in a mirror of their previous position, and he lifts his head just slightly to make it easier. Alexander huffs out a laugh but doesn’t push it, and when Aaron actually does fall asleep, it’s pressed close to the other man, every exhale of Alexander’s warm on the back of his neck, eyes closed against the dark of the room, broken up by the glint of the moon through the blinds.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Florence + the Machine's "Falling."
> 
> Alexander's mug: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/46/90/fb/4690fb9bfd102ac8b057f803506efe2b.jpg


End file.
